Locked in Love
by AirborneGirl
Summary: Lisbon and Jane are getting into a heavy fight while locked up in the shipping container. Can anything good come out of this? Set during and after episode "Blood Money".
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Here's a new story for you to enjoy. I'll publish the first two chapters at the same time. I wanted to try and use a different style of writing, from a rather different POV. Hope you like it, please let me know.

**Disclaimer**: The story is mine, the characters I've kidnapped. I'm still negotiating the terms of their safe return. (Insert evil laugh here) :)

**Locked in love**

This royally sucks. In almost any other circumstance, you, CBI agent Teresa Lisbon, would know what to do. But the situation you're in right now is not one you could have ever predicted and it leaves you in doubt of your worthiness as a cop and in everything else in your life.

It's so hot in here, it impairs your thinking. And you need all your wits, not only to survive being locked up in a dark, stifling hot shipping crate parked only God knows where, without any food or water, but also to survive the company you're in.

Patrick Jane. Insufferable at any given time, but just way too much to deal with when your brains feel like they have been friend for the last hour. You're sweating like a pig, but you've already shed your jacket and there's no way in hell (and this is close enough to it) you'll undress any further, even though your black pants are sticking to your butt and your shirt is drenched.

Not to mention your hair is matted against your skull and you just know you must look as dreadful as you feel. Not that it matters, it never did much, but still…

And he! This intolerable, wretched man, this, this…ugh! How dare he look the way he does? Cool as a freaking cucumber! Sure, he too has discarded jacket and vest and yes, he has opened two or three extra buttons on his collar, but he's so in control, so infuriatingly superior, he doesn't show any signs of being even lukewarm. His armpits show no telltale stains and even though his curls are just a little damp, he still manages to look like he's just walked away from a deodorant commercial photo shoot. Speaking of shooting…

You honestly don't know why his relaxed appearance is so annoying. It's not like you're not used to it, but jeez…can't a lady get a break these days? Of all the people to get locked up with, did it really have to be him?

Well, of course Lisbon, he's the one who lured you to this place. All in your best interest, mind you. There was something very credible in his explanation and admit it, you did like the thought of him saving you. In your deepest heart of hearts, you are more inclined to play the part of damsel in distress than you're willing to tell. For all your big talk about being independent, you do enjoy male chivalry to some extent. And his more than others.

Oh, just admit it already! It's not just the heat outside that gets to you! It's the thought of being locked up with him that gets your blood boiling. But you can only hope he can't read your inner thoughts in the semi darkness, because you'll be screwed even more. He'll never let you hear the end of it.

His voice breaks through you musings.

"Lisbon, would you just sit down and relax? Your scurrying around makes me nervous."

Reluctantly, you do as he asks you, but you stay away from his as far as you can. A shooting pain through your head makes you dizzy and you moan softly as you wobble on your bare feet, shoes long since kicked off.

"Lisbon, you okay?"

He's with you in an instant, helping you sit down and drawing you closer, impossibly closer to his chest. You wriggle to get free, but he doesn't let go. A surprisingly cool hand finds its way to your forehead.

"Poor baby, you're so warm. Come lie down here in the shade. Use my jacket to sit on."

He's saving you again, and you let him. This heat makes you a little woozy. Maybe lying down is not such a bad plan. His jacket feels soft underneath your cheekbone and you repress a sigh of contentment as his smell fills your nostrils. Not the pungent smell of sweat, but just warm masculinity and a small hint of cologne.

"Jeez, you don't even sweat, do you?"

He grins, not in the least bit disturbed by your sudden outburst.

"Nope, I'm not prone to perspiration. Good thing, or we both would stink up the place."

"Oh, so now I stink?"

"You, my dear, could never stink to me, but I do advise a nice, long shower when we get out of here."

You nod in agreement, swallowing a little lump of foreboding. The little voice inside that mentions you might not get out of this damn crate in time to enjoy any other shower than the one on the autopsy table in the basement at the CBI HQ.

"We will get out of here. And we'll eat, drink, take a shower and be merry. Just think about it. So cool and relaxing…"

It sounds good and you feel yourself being drawn in by his voice. You have just a hint of an inkling that he might be hypnotizing you, but he can't be. He needs eye-contact for that. Right?

You decide to break his concentration by asking him another question, just in case…

"So why aren't you as hot as I am?"

"My my, Lisbon. I don't deny you're one hot mama, but a lady never flaunts her qualities. And I have you know that I think of myself as pretty hot too you know. Kind of hurts my ego to think you do not think of me as desirable."

Infuriating! Damn him to the deepest pits of hell! Oh wait…you're already there.

"That's not what I meant and you know it!"

"So you _do_ think I'm hot? Why thanks, Lisbon. That's so sincere of you."

"Stop twisting my words around or I'll kill you."

"How am I twisting your words around, my dear? I was very innocently talking about a shower. How come I get blamed for your dirty little mind?"

He's so dead!

"I do not have a dirty mind and even if I had, you would not be in it!"

"Sure. If that's what you want to tell yourself."

Blissful silence. Time to put your head down again. You should have known it was too good to be true.

You are in mine you know."

You so not needed to know that. Though in a way, it's flattering, it's also very dangerous. You try your hardest to keep your infatuation with him under control and it's hard enough on any given day. And today is hardly a normal day. There's no doubt in your mind that he's known about it for quite some time, though, but so far, he's never called your bluff and you're grateful for that.

This love being one-sided was both your biggest pain and your means of escape. The knowledge that he would never reciprocate made it somewhat easier to maintain a professional distance between the two of you.

But knowing that he thinks of you not only as his boss and possibly his friend, but also as a woman, a desirable one on top of that…let's just say that the temperature inside this contraption just went up another ten degrees.

Not knowing how to answer, if anything at all, you keep your mouth shut. He'll fill in the blanks by himself, he always does.

And indeed…

"What, surprised? Teresa, just because I have been celibate for quite some time, doesn't mean I'm a saint. I can and do still enjoy looking at beautiful women and I happen to think you're one of them."

"Thanks."

"That doesn't sound very sincere."

"Well, what did you expect?"

"Normally, when a man compliments a woman on her beauty, she appreciates it."

"Being the subject of your sordid dreams hardly feels like a compliment."

However did you get yourself into this conversation? And how the hell can you get out?

"So…I guess you don't wanna hear any details?"

No, no you don't. This little revelation, whether true or not, has upended your last reason to stay in control. For if he does return these feelings, if he too picks up on the sizzling in the air, then how the hell are you supposed to keep your guards up?

So you beg him, with your eyes, your body, with every hold you think you have over him, to just drop the subject.

He seems to get it, for he touches your shoulder in a hesitant, apologetic way.

"Lisbon…I'm sorry. I was just yanking your chain and I pushed the subject too far. I should have realized it would make you feel uncomfortable."

"Thanks. Apology accepted."

"Good. But I won't take back calling you beautiful."

You smile, despite of yourself.

"That's okay. You don't have to."

He smiles too now. Silence again rules the small space and your heart rate finally slows down to just above normal. With the sun setting, the worst of the heat evaporates. The sheen of perspiration on your arms now cooling down actually makes you feel a little chilly and you can't suppress a shiver. Of course he notices and immediately drapes his jacket over your shoulders. You grin at him.

"Not so hot anymore huh?"

"No…but perhaps even more gorgeous."

It's nothing but a whisper, with him pressing you with your back against his chest. Your heart rate immediately picks up speed again and really flies overboard when he presses a barely there kiss in your neck, before letting go.

Now moisture of another kind makes its way out of your body. You're in serious danger of dehydrating yourself, but you can't stop the tears from flowing. Too late, you break loose from his embrace and turn away. He's already seen it.

His voice is plaintive as he addresses you.

"Teresa, please share your pain. Tell me what frightens you. If I can help, I will. Just remember what I told you: I'll always save you."

That's when the elephant in the room explodes. Years of pent-up love for this man, months of frustration about his self-chosen path of destruction, combined with the added stress of being locked up with no way out all together make a powerful fuse. And he just lit it.

"You can't save me Jane! You can't, because you won't even save yourself. We might be stuck in this container for hours, but you've been stuck in your heart for years! By vengeance! If vengeance was a lady, you would have married her years ago! How dare you lure me into this little game of innuendo, feed me mental images of something you know I want, something I can never have!"

"I never said you can't have me. I'm not immune to the attraction between us."

"Bullshit! Attraction, my ass! We're not animals in heat, Jane. I can't just…just…have sex with you and move on. God knows I wish I could, God knows I wish it would be enough, but no, stupid little Teresa Lisbon had to fall head over heels in love with the one man whose entire life revolves around destruction."

"You know why I…"

You rudely interrupt him.

"No I don't! For no matter how much pain I've had in my life, no matter how many times I've cursed my fate, cursed the man who killed my mom, cursed my dad for the path he chose to forget, I would never stoop as low as them, finish them off like one would do a rat and then dare to call that justice. And foremost, I would never trample over the hearts of people who love me, like you do, and then offer to save them. Not when it's you I need to be saved from most!"

He's gone pale as a ghost while you lash out at him. With the light of the sun almost gone, you can hardly see him anymore, but he's close enough for you to see the shocked look in his eyes.

Hiding his own tears, he quickly steps away from you, almost like you're carrying some highly contagious disease. You feel sick to your stomach, sorry for the pain you had to inflict, but you can't take back the words and perhaps you shouldn't.

"Well, that's clear. I'll just keep my mouth shut then."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

There still is a God. You were starting to get worried when Jane indeed remained silent after your verbal abuse. You kind of feel sorry for him, but you make sure he can't see your face since you don't want him to know that.

Was this whole calling you hot and beautiful just another one of his mind games? Did he only try to coax some kind of confession out of you, knowing you were hot, sticky, sweaty, dehydrated and still very much aware you were locked up in a shipping crate while none of your team members knew where you were? Was he just riling you up, totally and fully aware that you didn't know where you were either and that said fact made you anxious, if not scared?

If all he was attempting to do was distract you from your very precarious position, his attempt worked quite well. A little too well perhaps, as you were now very much aware of the other implications of being locked up in close quarters with Patrick Jane.

Dear lord, even if he's only half as good at reading minds as he proclaims he is, than he must have known for God only knows how long that you have a crush on him. Or more than a crush. You never had to tell him that. But now you did. Maybe it's a good thing you're unarmed. Now would have been an excellent time to kill him. No witnesses, nobody to defer from your testimony.

You thank your lucky stars when the arrival of a small boy with a goat tethered to a rope comes along and liberates the both of you. It's a long and silent walk, but eventually, the boy takes you to his home, where you find out you're in Mexico, in a deserted no man's land just across the border. His mother speaks enough English and you speak just about enough Spanish to explain to her who you are and what brought you there and that you urgently need assistance of your Mexican fellow officers.

She offers you each a tall glass of iced tea and a chance to clean up as best as you can in her small bathroom. How you wish for a decent shower, but the boy who found you is just one of many siblings and you don't want to be using up all the water in her small tank when she has so many sandy kids to clean in the evening.

Of course, Patrick seems to have forgotten all about your fight as he enjoys himself with the children of the household, showing them elementary magic tricks. Despite of yourself, you smile at the sight of them. He stands out, a blonde mop of curls between the dark messy heads of the boys and girl gathered around him, looking at him with rapt attention. Not for the first time, the thought hits you that he probably was an amazing father and also not for the first time, it pulls off some sparks in the pit of your stomach. What you wouldn't give to have this with him.

You laugh out loud when a little girl in front of him giggles in delight as he pulls a coin from her ear and hands it to her, giving her a hand kiss in the process. She yanks her hand away, rubs it in delighted disbelieve and you imagine when he looks up at you at the sound of your laugh, he sees the same adoration in both your own eyes and hers.

He smiles back at you. Not a leering smile, not a knowing smile, but one that's genuine and warm and throws you even further off guard. At least you can feign a heatstroke if you faint right now.

The Federales show up after a while and you hardly have time to thank the mother and say goodbye to the kids, before they make sure you can get in touch with your team. Seven hours after you've been locked up (though it feels like seven weeks by now) you're on your way back home.

After that, things get back to normal pretty fast and yes, it's a scary moment when you realize that Jane creating a circus in the courthouse, revealing the bad guy, insulting the judge and getting away with a mere slap on the wrist (okay, and a hefty fine) has become normal to you.

Still, at the shooting range, he's quiet and subdued, perhaps knowing that provoking you while you're holding a gun is not a wise move. He remains unarmed, politely refusing to participate and almost physically shying away from the weapon you're holding. It silently makes you wonder how he ever plans on killing Red John when it has become obvious on so many occasions that guns and Patrick do not match.

The subject remains untouched; you don't want to bring it up. You hate the look on his face whenever the painful memories get the better of him. Perhaps he knows it, but you've always tried to save him too and will continue to do so until hopefully someday, you won't have to anymore.

For many days and many showers after your unexpected night out, things seem to go in the same motion as ever, so at first, you don't really notice the very little, subtle changes in his demeanor, especially toward yourself. Sure, he shows genuine concern when you almost get blown away by a bomb, but he doesn't mention it later. Still, it's the first time you notice him being a little more sensitive to your feelings. But since that could just as easily be wishful thinking on your part, you shrug it off. Best not to get your hopes up.

The second time you notice a difference is a few weeks after your lock-up, when you stumble and fall after an all night stake-out, which has left you tired and unbalanced.

Too shaken to drive, you switch places and for once, he doesn't seem to feel the need to run a red light or to speed. Instead, his gaze falls on you every now and then as if to make sure you're not in too much agony. You're not really in any great deal of pain, but as everybody knows, having your knee scraped hurts. Period. Even when you're not a big baby.

You arrive back at the office early that same morning, and after helping you out of the car and into the elevator, he lets you sit down on his couch (by now that's to be considered the highest honor he can bestow on any of you) and comes back from the kitchenette with two mugs of sweet, hot tea and the first aid kit. At this ungodly hour, there's just the two of you and even though you're very much capable of mending your own scraped knee, you let him take care of you.

He's immensely gentle and tender with the painfully tingling flesh, cleaning it first with a soft wet cloth with some kind of antiseptic stuff sprayed on it and blowing it dry with his lips. You wonder how many times he had to do this for his daughter and if she was a tomboy and you're both startled and flattered that he answers your unvoiced question. It doesn't come as a surprise that he knows what you're thinking, but he's never answered questions about his past personal life before.

His eyes glaze over as the memories flood through him.

"I must have mended hundreds of bruised knees. Her mom must have mended hundred pairs of stockings. She liked to dress up, really hated jeans and t-shirts. But then she would go play outside and act like a monkey. Couldn't sit still for more than a minute."

"So she took after her dad, then."

"I guess so, in a way. But there was a lot of her mother in there too."

Another small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but he turns around to reach for a band aid as the perfect excuse not to show you the look in his eyes. You let him; these mind images are too private to share. You know that by experience, you got enough of those of your own.

With a small stroke to attach the sticky sides of the band aid to your knee, he finishes and you immediately know that the moment is over. If you press for more insight into his territory, he'll shut you down. So you leave it be; grateful for this little sign of trust between the two of you. Then again, it was never he who had the trust issues.

"There, that should do it; as good as new."

He stands, busying himself with cleaning up the spilled contents of the first aid kit. You pull your pant leg back down and stand. He still has his back turned to you. It takes a great amount of time for him to put things away, but you quietly let him regain his composure. You only put your hand on his shoulder and then, in a reflex, you let your head rest against it too.

"Thanks, Patrick."

It's a hoarse whisper, but he gets it, showing as much by grabbing the hand on his shoulder with his own and giving it a gentle squeeze.

"You're welcome, love."

The others come in not long after that and the day progresses as it normally does. With the excuse of having to write many reports, you stick to your office for most of the day en when Van Pelt asks you to join them for lunch, you decline and ask her to bring you back a sandwich and a coffee instead. Since this is not the first time you're too busy to come along, she doesn't read too much into it and half an hour later, she drops off your lunch without any questions.

The afternoon has Patrick drop in just to ask you how you're feeling. He leaves you a box of chocolate-coated strawberries with the excuse that the sweet treat will make you forget about the pain a little. You conveniently forget to mention that your knee really doesn't hurt that much, especially not after his attention to it that morning.

Later, much later, hours after you said your usual goodbyes to the team and get yourself comfortable at home in an age old track suit for an evening with a sappy movie and a pint of Ben & Jerry's, you find your mind drifting back to that morning. And why his touch seemed to be so much different from any other time before.

Though not the creepy kind of a touchy feely guy, Jane has hugged you before, leaving you feel awkward most of the time and stuck between way too relaxed and way too much aware of being too relaxed in other times.

Today, you felt perfectly happy to let him help you, even though, as noted, you hardly need assistance in slapping a band aid on a sore knee.

The romantic movie you chose to watch was meant to distract you, but as the male lead takes the female lead in his arms, you are immediately reminded of all the times Jane has hugged you, or the time he danced with you at that high school reunion. And when on screen, the lady twists her ankle and the guy helps her get up, it's Patrick you see as he sat you down on the couch, worry for your wellbeing etched on his face.

All images of the movie blur together as you lose yourself in the memory of that morning. If anyone would have told you that getting your knee bandaged would become some kind of highly intimate procedure, you would have laughed and accused that person of having way too much imagination.

But intimate it was. His hands were so soft and careful when they dabbed at the bloody spot on your leg. He really has nice hands, friendly hands, with long, elegant fingers. A shiver runs down your spine when you recall his lips slightly pursing to blow on that same spot. Silently, you admonish yourself for going down the slippery slope of visualizing as well as criticizing his mouth. His wonderful, beautiful, kissable mouth, with the gorgeous white teeth, coming together in a smile that could melt the icecaps on the North Pole.

Stop it! Just stop it!

So he helped you when you were injured, so what? He put a freakin' band aid on your stupid knee, after you were stupid enough to keel over in front of him! It doesn't make him a knight in shining armor, it does not change the fact that he will never be yours!

Angry and annoyed with yourself and the way you allowed your mind to wander, you switch channels and television and force yourself to watch the news over and over again until you're sufficiently brainwashed by something else rather than Patrick Jane.

It takes you longer than usual to get comfortable in your own bed that night. You're unusually afraid of the dreams that might come to haunt you at night, so you try and read anything (case files included) until your eyes water with exhaustion and you can't distinct one word from another. Finally, thinking your remaining brain cells, if not dead, are in a coma at least, you turn off the lights and crawl underneath the covers.

Indeed, the dreams do come to you. The office bullpen and the couch take shape in your subconscious. There's Jane, carrying the first aid kit. He kneels next to you and rips open a bandage. Closer and closer his hands come to your skin and then you see…

You wake up with your heart pounding inside your chest. What you saw might not even be true, and if it is, it might not mean what you would like it to mean. But after an entire day of wondering what that little detail was you seem to have forgotten about, your dream showed you. And for once, you can hardly wait for the weekend to be over and for Monday morning to dawn so you can go back and check for yourself:

Jane is no longer wearing his wedding ring.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: **Thank you all for your wonderful reviews. As always, I very much appreciate them. So here's another chapter for you to enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I just slept with Patrick Jane. In my dreams...that's as far as I'll ever get, I suppose. Oh well...

**Chapter 3**

After an entire weekend of tossing and turning and minutes crawling at a snail's pace, Monday finally roles along and you can go back to work. You're there early, which is not inconspicuous, since you're always there early. And he's there too, which is nothing new either, since he's probably spent his nights on the couch.

He greets you with a small and pleasant smile, but he has his hands behind his head, so you can't see. Quickly, you drop your purse in your office and switch on your computer. While it whirrs to live, you stroll to the little kitchenette to make yourself a cup of coffee, the first one of many.

"Patrick, can I bring you back some tea?"

You've been calling each other by your first names when it's just the two of you. Probably since the lock-up, but you can't be sure and you don't care to ask him, afraid he'll go back to the business-like 'Lisbon'. It's okay when the team is complete, but it has started to feel impersonal when you're alone with him.

His answer reaches you and you're a bit disappointed.

"No thanks, Teresa. I haven't finished this cup yet."

Dang it. No excuse to come close to him and see what you need to see. You'd better think of something else before you go mad.

As if he knows your discomfort, he gives you a way out. Bless him and better make that soon. He'll go back to annoying you soon enough.

"How's your knee?"

It hasn't honestly been bothering you at all, but hey, why should he know?

"Still a bit sore."

"Poor thing, you. Want me to take another look at it?"

Dear Lord, if this was anyone else, you would have thought he was flirting! Perhaps it's mere wishful thinking yet again, but it sure sounds like that. Still, he offers and who are you to refuse such a nice gesture? Come to think of it, you have many other limbs to hurt in the future, if he's so keen on watching over you. You're not by any standards a masochist, but desperate times…

Since when are these desperate times, Lisbon?

With your filled coffee cup, you limp over to his couch. He grins, knowing very well you're exaggerating, but he still sits up straight and watches you intently as you roll up your pant leg (having to remind yourself which one) for him to assess the precarious situation you're in.

Gentle hands rip off the band aid. Your knee shows a purplish bruise, but doesn't look or smell like it needs to be amputated any time soon.

Still, you get to take a look at those hands, and stifle a gasp.

So it is true…there is no wedding band.

You notice immediately that he has noticed you've picked up on this small yet significant change. Silence settles down between the both of you and your heart rate is the only sign to betray your state of mind.

Then, just when you think you can't hold your breath any longer, Patrick takes your shifted relationship one small hint further. His blonde, curly head descends to the height of your injury and for a moment, you think he'll blow on it, like he did three days before. Instead, his soft lips connect ever so briefly with the purple skin.

It is over before you can even think about the implications. Though it has distracted you sufficiently enough from your initial puzzlement about his ring. And when five minutes later, Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt walk in, you're back to 'Jane' and 'Lisbon' again and you do not get to talk to him in private until you say goodbye for the evening.

"Goodnight Jane."

"Patrick. Call me Patrick."

"Very well…goodnight, Patrick."

"Goodnight Teresa."

He's silent again and you walk quickly to the elevator, wanted to be by yourself again and relive the kiss-on-the-knee moment for the rest of the evening. And yes, you're willing to quietly admit to yourself you're just a tiny bit pathetic.

"Teresa?"

You look back, something in his voice alarming you.

"Yes?"

"I…eh…look."

What the heck? He's never been at a loss for words before, certainly not around you. You stay frozen to the spot, both curious and frightened. For a nanosecond, you're afraid he might be sick, as in terminally sick and that that might be the reason he's been acting so caring around you. Silently you pray for it to be something else, anything else.

He regains his composure.

"I know you were wondering about my ring. I just want you to know that I heard you. That afternoon, in that shipping crate. I heard you, Teresa and I guess I'm trying. I'm not the kind of man you should be in love with, at least, not right now. But…I can try. It'll be a slow change. And…I guess I understand if you don't want to wait for the results, since there are no guarantees. I just thought you should know. I'm trying…for you."

He's trembling by the time he dares to look into your face. Like he hasn't just said the words you didn't know you've been waiting to hear for years. You drop your purse, ignore the ding of the elevator as it reaches your floor and walk over to him. Unshed tears clog your throat and you have no idea what to say anyway, so you croak out the only thing you can think of:

"I'll be right here, Patrick."

He sighs in relief and gives you a smile so radiant you think he could deliver energy to the entire state of California.

He doesn't touch, hug or kiss you and you instinctively know that such intimacies cannot be evoked in him whenever you want to. Not yet. But he's given you a lot of hope for the future, so all you do is caress his cheek and revel in the fact he leans into your touch for a moment. It's enough for today.

For the rest of the week, there's an entirely different dynamic between the two of you. Neither one of you cares any more if your coworkers are around; you're quite content calling the other one by their first names all the time. Only when you're annoyed with him, whenever he's off to Christ knows where, doing Christ knows what without saying anything, your voice still tends to roar out "Jane!'. But these days, it's enough to reel him in. Most of the times.

On Saturday, you're still in your track suit after your usual morning run, when your cell phone rings. The caller ID says it's Patrick and your heart skips a beat. He's never called you during the weekend before unless it's about a case and your team is not on call this time. So either this is about Red John or he wants to discuss something personal…

Well, you won't find out the answer just by looking at the phone…

"Hey Patrick."

"Teresa…I…"

Your heart sinks. Whatever he's calling you for, it's not something very good. He's close to tears.

"What's going on Patrick? Are you hurt?"

"No…no. It's nothing like that. I eh…I need your help. I'm at my Malibu house. Can you please come over?"

Whatever the reason, it sounds serious and even though you've never been there, you've heard some things over the years about that house that give you the creeps. But you have to get over that now. Patrick needs you.

"I'm on my way."

Without thinking, without even changing out of your sweaty track suit, you grab wallet, phone and car keys and five minutes later, you're on your way to help your friend in need, feeling both anxious as well as happy that he's confiding in you yet again. He was right, he is trying. And you're determined to meet him halfway.

Breaking every speed limit along the way (he would be so proud of you now), you reach his house on the beach in record time. Normally, you would give yourself some time to take in the scenery, since it's breathtaking, but there is not a minute to waste.

He's sitting on the steps leading to the front door, wearing suit and vest as usual, but still looking more disheveled than you've seen him before. When he hears your footsteps, he looks up and your heart breaks. His eyes are red rimmed and the dark circles surrounding them tell you he hasn't been sleeping – again.

He greets you with a smile and stands, taking your hand and leading you up the steps. At the door, he hesitates. Words come out as a whispered tumble.

"Teresa…this house is…I need to warn you. It might scare you, it might repulse you and I shouldn't be asking you to do this but…"

"Patrick, it's okay. I came here to help you because I want to. I won't back out on a promise just because it's not an easy one. Your friendship means too much to me."

His answer is in a soft squeeze of your hand, before he turns to open the door.

You enter a ghost house. It's almost completely empty, void of anything but the bare necessities; nothing in it makes it a home. Choking back your wave of sympathy, you follow him upstairs. He stalls again when he reaches the first room at the end of the staircase, his hand on the knob.

"Are you ready for this?"

You nod stupidly, bracing yourself for what's ahead.

Sighing, he turns the knob and opens the door wide enough for you to see why he made you come over. Indeed, it is revolting, hideous and so very sad. For the first time, you are witness to Patrick Jane's extent of self-loathing. A bare mattress on the floor, covered with an old blanket.

And a blood-colored smiley face at the opposite wall. The signature of the serial killer. The sign of Patrick's doom.

Jane walks in, leaving you standing there momentarily. He picks some things up from the floor and turns around to hand them to you. Without thinking, you reach for it and then you see what he's holding.

A can of white paint and a paint roller.

Point taken, you grab hold of the paint and open the lid, dipping the roller in. He catches your look and nods his consent. Stepping a little closer, you put the roller on the wall. Then, his hand covers yours. Linked like that, the two of you make the ugly reminder of the horrible crime disappear.

The job is done in less than five minutes and as soon as it is, he drops your hand and makes a beeline for the stairs. You wipe off the roller and close the lid on the can. By the time you find him in the kitchen, he's wiping off his paint stained hands, rubbing them so vigorously you're afraid he'll take his skin off.

You take the bar of soap he's put on the counter and cover his shaking hands with your soap lathered ones. It's a sweet and infinitely intimate moment between the two of you and he must feel it too, since he's no longer afraid to break down in front of you.

His shoulders start to shake and his knees buckle as he succumbs to the pain he's been holding back for ages. Carefully, you let him slide to the floor, where you take him in your arms to soothe him, rubbing circles on his back and whispering nonsense in his ears until finally, he calms down a little.

For a moment you think he's fallen asleep and you wonder how to get a sleeping grown man off the floor on your own. But then he looks up at you and for once, with all his walls down, you know you see the only real Patrick.

His hand caresses your cheek and you put a small kiss on his fingertips as they pass.

"Thank you, my darling Teresa."

"Anything for you, Patrick. Anything in the world."

You mean that. And he knows it.

_ Like? Don't like? Let me know..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The ride back to your home is mostly a silent one, even though there's two of you in the car now. After his meltdown on the kitchen floor, he made the both of you a glass of lemonade and showed you the garden, his most favorite place, mostly the reason why he and his wife had bought it all those years ago. In the gazebo, overlooking the ocean, he told you bits and pieces of his life before you knew him, including the parts which then seemed just a side effect of his job, but for which he is ashamed today.

The drink wasn't really needed, but you accept that it took this mundane task for him to get his bearings after the hurricane of emotions he had gone through. And just like you wished you could have interrupted his self-incrimination, he needed to get that load off his chest.

You remember the words he used to describe himself and your heart aches for him.

"I was a vulture, Teresa, nothing more. It was so easy to tell, in a studio full of people, who would be most susceptible to my shameless bullshit tales of their beloved dead relatives or friends. I leeched of their grief, told them exactly what they wanted to hear. I…maybe I deserved everything that has happened to me."

You gasped at that. True, you do have trouble with the man he described himself to be, but you can't help but still be in love with the man he is now, broken or not. And no amount of self-loathing on his part can make you change your mind about that.

So that was the moment you tried and stop his monologue the first time, but he ignored you. He was not finished yet.

"She begged me to stop, begged me to find a real job, or at least to use my skills to do some good, but oh…the money. I loved my paycheck more than them, heck I tried to point out how she profited from my hefty bank account. Stupid idiot I was."

He sighed, gulped down his lemonade and finished.

"We fought more and more. About my ridiculous hours at the studio, about the quantity as well as the quality of my time with our daughter, about the things I said and did on camera. All I ever wanted was for them to be proud of me and I made the mistake of thinking that spending hundreds of dollars on gifts would accomplish that. And then…that night…my final big mess-up. And no way to resolve it."

He turned to look at you, but you weren't sure he actually saw you.

"Ironic, huh? The one time I actually wish I could talk to the dead…and they're the ones whom I can never reach."

That's when he remained silent. Which is a good thing, since you were getting tired of hearing him. Tired, but not too repulsed to leave him, as he suggested, you got up from the bench inside the gazebo and gathered your purse. Looking around to face him, you offered him the only consolation you could think of.

"Patrick, come home with me, please. I don't like the idea of leaving you here."

He smiled at you, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He looked exhausted. You thought that that particular look might go for the both of you.

"Sweet Teresa. I won't hurt myself, I promise."

Did you really have to lose your patience with him?

"Well, I will hurt you if you don't do as I say."

One raised eyebrow was his only reply. You could never hurt him and of course he was well aware of that. So you chose the only tool that, every now and then, works in your benefit. Pleadingly:

"Patrick, please, do it for my peace of mind. I'll worry about you all night."

At that, he nodded.

"Very well. I wouldn't want to be responsible for you losing your beauty sleep."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

That time, his laugh did appear to be genuine. And so you joined him, relieved that the thunderclouds were drifting over, at least for the moment…

That was half an hour ago and the silence inside the car is neither comfortable nor threatening. Still, you're glad when you finally park your car in front of your house. For a moment, you wonder what he might think of your place, but then you remember he's been here before and in what state you were (pretended or not) when he was. It makes you feel even better about making him come back with you. Now you get to help him, even if he was reluctant to let you do so.

You open the door for the both of you, immediately heading upstairs to show him your small guest room. It only has a small twin bed perched against the wall, since you mostly use the room for anything else. It's laundry room on Monday, ironing room Tuesday evenings, workout room whenever you feel like it, but for the night, it's Patrick's room, where you hope he can find at least some quiet hours.

"It's not much, but…"

"It's everything. Thank you, Teresa. For today. For…you know…everything."

He takes your hand to kiss the knuckles. You feel the blush creeping up your cheeks and he chuckles softly. Even though you should be embarrassed, you're not. Not really. You're way too happy he's here with you, making fun of you. Almost back to normal.

Back downstairs, he offers to make you dinner, but that offer soon falls down the wayside when he opens your fridge to find nothing appealing in there. You are a self-sufficient, capable woman, but you've never really cared for cooking, so there's not much else inside your fridge besides the bare necessities.

"Jeez, woman, what do you eat for dinner?"

As a response, you open the kitchen drawer, where the take-out menus of your favorite restaurants can be found.

"Chinese, Thai or Pizza?"

Shaking his head in disbelief, but not quite capable of hiding his smile, he grabs the Thai menu from your outstretched hand and glances it over. Making his choice, and letting you make yours, he insists on being the one to phone in the order.

"Hey, if I can't make the food, at least let me pay for it."

While waiting for the food to arrive, he glances over your CD collection, selecting some soft jazzy music he likes and sticking it inside the player. Normally, when someone touches your stuff without asking, it seriously irks you, enough to contemplate getting out the handcuffs, but with Patrick, you seem to be okay. Besides, Patrick in handcuffs…the fluffy kind…not a healthy mental picture.

He spots you leaning against the doorpost that separates your living room from your kitchen and reaches out to you.

"May I have this dance, my lady?"

How can you resist?

Smiling, you allow him to gather you in his arms. Softly, you sway to the music. It seems like Patrick is forever drawing you closer and closer, until there's not enough room between the both of you for something as delicate as a feather.

Clearly, it's still not close enough for him. He manages to still get you closer in the warm, safe, inviting room in his arms. As if it was made for you. You dare not look him in the eyes and when he softly tilts your chin to force you to meet his gaze, you are immediately reminded of the reason.

The air around you gets thicker, the implications of what you know is about to happen suffocates you. Still, there is nothing you can think of doing to stop this from happening. And if you're being true to yourself, you don't think you want to either.

His mouth gets closer to yours with every passing nanosecond and instead of pulling back (the wise thing to do), you lean in...

_Ding-dong!_

Saved by the bell. Patrick draws away to go open the door to the delivery boy and you bite back a curse. Since when has your life become such a maddening cliché? Who wrote the script to this infuriating B-movie you seem to be stuck in? _(AN…eh…sorry…that would be me)_

Patrick brings the fragrant take-out boxes back to the kitchen, where you take out some plates and utensils, as well as napkins and two bottles of cold beer from the fridge. You open both bottles and hand one to him. He takes it with a nod of thanks while you divide the food between the two of you. You're very grateful you have the food to concentrate on, it gives you some time to get your bearings after this close call. Patrick seems to recover quite adequately. He's back to teasing you pretty soon.

"No chopsticks, Teresa? I'm disappointed."

You shrug.

"They're inconvenient. That's why modern people invented forks."

"Barbarian. Besides, eating Thai food with chopsticks, straight out of the carton makes it more tasty."

"Sure it does, Jane. You go ahead and dump the contents of your plate all over your suit. I'll eat like I normally do."

"My name is Patrick. You only use my last name when you're annoyed with me. And it's not so hard."

He proves it by expertly taking the chopsticks between his fingers and bringing his food to his mouth without spilling even one morsel of food. Damn him. Is there anything he won't use to try and impress you?

Is there anything that won't do the trick?

"See? Nothing difficult about it. Here, let me show you."

He takes the second pair of chopsticks in one hand and takes your hand with the other. Prying your fingers apart gently, he shoves the sticks in between them. Then, covering your hand with his own, much like he did when you were painting, he directs you to the food, taking a bite between the wooden sticks and bringing it to your mouth without spilling. You close your lips around the food, taking in his fingers by accident. Without a hurry, he retracts his fingers and with his thumb, he wipes away a bit of hot sauce from your bottom lip.

You have no idea whether it was the sauce or his thumb that leaves you burning, but you're afraid it's the latter.

You clear your throat and almost choke on the too hastily gulped down beer. He only hands you a napkin, without any comment.

Both of you finish dinner in relative silence. Patrick compliments you on your rapidly picked up chopstick eating skills and you smile at him in thanks. Again, the moment has passed and again, you tell yourself you have to be grateful. Sure, he's trying, but it's still all so premature. You don't want to rush. But you have a long night ahead of you…

For the remaining hours of the evening, you play it safe. You watch the news and then an old western movie, without as much as a prudish kiss to comment on. The subjects of conversation you choose are nothing to get exciting about either. And when midnight strikes and it's time for you to go to bed, he thanks you again for your hospitality, gives you a chaste goodnight kiss on the cheek and retreats to his assigned guest room.

Normally, you hate sleeping in pajamas, but tonight you take an oversized t-shirt out of the bottom of your closet. You are not about to take the risk of bumping into him naked in the middle of the night if nature should call. You only have one bathroom.

It takes quite some time for you to fall asleep. So when you wake up to the scent of fresh coffee and something cooking (waffles or perhaps pancakes?), it takes a while before you remember you have a guest. When you do, it's enough for your brain to whirl into action. After five minutes of searching, you find your hardly ever used bathrobe and at least somewhat decent, you shuffle into the kitchen.

Where you soon find out Patrick's sense of decency is not quite the same as yours. The only part of him that's covered up properly is his nicely shaped ass. Well, and his front, you suppose, but his back is turned toward you while he's busy with the breakfast preparations, flipping pancakes like a pro. When he hears you come in, he turns to face you, giving you his brightest smile.

They're a very tight pair of boxer briefs…you swallow. Please, God. Why do you have to make it so hard?

"Good morning, sunshine. Sleep well? Want some breakfast?"

Your dried up vocal chords are barely in time, but you manage an answer.

"Good morning to you too. You look like you slept well."

"I did. Thanks again for asking me to stay. It does mean a lot. Now…coffee? Pancake? Syrup?"

You greedily take everything he has to offer. And as he takes a seat opposite of you, you know that you will continue to do so. You have no choice.

All it will take is time. And a prayer that you still won't lose him in the end . Whenever that time comes.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: **Since I'll be going on a short vacation next week, I thought you would all like me to upload the next chapter to lay you over. Hope you're still with me and I thank those of you who have reviewed for doing so!

**Disclaimer**: Just in case you still don't get it: not mine. Got a birthday coming up though…no…won't get them? Oh well…

**Chapter 5**

A few weeks later…

Sighing, you pick up a pair of discarded socks from the guest room floor, wondering why he still doesn't seem to know where the hamper is? Or the detergent, for that matter. You don't mind washing his clothes every now and then, but this is getting ridiculous.

Clearly you remember inviting him over to stay as your guest for the remainder of the weekend. You were worried about him after all.

But that was weeks ago. Now, he's staying here almost every single night. His aftershave and his toothbrush take up space next to your facial cream in the bathroom and at least three suits and six shirts have taken permanent residence in the narrow closet where your work-out gear used to be stored. This was not what you had bargained for, and you're not thinking this because you hate having him here. More because you like it perhaps a little too much.

It's a tricky situation you find yourself in these days. On the surface, the two of you are living together like brother and sister, but when you scratch it – which happens more and more – your sibling relationship gets blown to pieces.

He can be very romantic whenever he wants to be. At least once a week, he takes you out to dinner. Sometimes it's nothing fancy, just your regular chain restaurant with an all you can eat buffet. He loves teasing you whenever you show a healthy appetite after a closed case and during those moments, you love him for the boyish charm he exudes.

But just last week, he upped the ante by taking you to a very romantic, very secluded and very, very expensive French restaurant. He had even gone as far as bringing an extra set of clothes for you to the office, so you could change into something a lot more appropriate than your usual black slacks and shirt. It's quite disturbing when you realize how well he knows his way in your wardrobe. And even more so when you come to the conclusion that you would have kicked any other person out of your house for such an infraction of your privacy.

But this is Patrick. And you love him.

So you let him feed you bits of his food and you let him order a hideously expensive bottle of champagne. It's funny how you trust him not to take advantage of you in an intoxicated state more than the other way around.

That evening, when you both return home (huh, since when has your home become his as well?), he gallantly opens the door for you, ignoring the fact you're too tipsy to get the key into the lock, guides you up the stairs and kisses your cheek, before retreating to his own bed.

You wish you were both drunk enough to stop trying to get to a relationship slowly and just go for it.

In the morning, you find two aspirin and a glass of juice on your bedside table and you're glad nothing else happened.

On another occasions, you find yourself on the beach with him. He'd been nagging you to come with him since that morning and when you woke up to him standing there with the bags already packed and a pleading pout on his face, you just couldn't resist. Who could?

He was right to persuade you, though. You can almost immediately feel yourself relax. Only when you notice him watching you with appreciation evident in his eyes, you are a bit worried that wearing your new sea-green bikini was a bit over the top. But you don't want to hear the remarks when you take out a shirt to cover yourself. It's not like he needs to think you're a prude.

It's the kind of day that could have been a movie scene. The sun has risen high in the sky and there's just enough of a breeze to lift the stifling heat and create nice surfing waves.

Well, the last thing is according to Patrick, since you don't surf, but apparently, he does. You're quite surprised at this and even think he's making a joke, but as you watch him put on his wetsuit and inspect his board, you start to doubt that.

Soon, he runs into the water and finds his balance on the board, expertly riding the waves. When he finally gets enough, he returns with a smile as wide as the Grand Canyon on his face.

"Whew, this is exhilarating. You should try it, Teresa. Come on."

He holds out his hand and he looks too stunningly happy for you to refuse. You soon regret it as one thing becomes obvious: surfing is most definitely not your sport.

When for the umpteenth time you resurface, with all the grace of an adult manatee, spluttering water out of every hole in your body, you seriously want to do some bodily harm to him, if only to wipe the shit-eating grin off his face.

"That's it. I give up. I don't want to drown on a beautiful day like this."

"Unlike any other dreary day, when you're more inclined to die?"

"Ha-ha. Funny. But I'm quitting. I'm going to soak up some sun."

With determined paces you wade through the water and let yourself fall on your towel. Only a couple of minutes later, his body overshadows yours.

"Go away, Jane."

"Ooh. Jane again, huh? What did I do?"

"Well, for starters, you just tried to drown me and now you're blocking out the sun. And you're dripping all over me too."

He sits down next to you, but you childishly turn your head to the other side. Perhaps not such a good idea. Now you can only rely on your hearing to make sure he won't annoy you even further.

A cold drop of something gooey hits your back and you yelp, trying to sit up. One hand on the small of your back pushes you down.

"You're burning up, my dear. Let me take care of that."

With gentle strokes, he rubs in the suntan lotion and you bite your lips to a bloody pulp not to moan out loud. You are already acquainted with his hands and you know his touch makes you weak. Systematically, he works his way from your shoulder blades down to your hip bones, just above your skimpy bikini panties. You're pretty certain it takes him just a tad too long, but there's no inner strength in you left to make him stop.

Just when you think you yourself will soon be reduced into a boneless puddle of Lisbon-shaped goo, he leaves you alone, but not before he drops a feather light kiss between your shoulder blades. His voice is husky when he lies down next to you, on his stomach, probably for a reason that sends your inner temperature to boiling point.

"There, that should do it."

"Want me to do your back?"

"Sure, thanks."

He must be some kind of masochist, but he seems to enjoy your touch well enough. You've already found out from the occasions when you meet him in the upstairs hallway after he's taken a shower, that he has a surprisingly fine body for someone whom you've never seen exercising, let alone running.

Well, now you know why and oh dear lord does it feel great to touch him. It shouldn't, but it does. His soft sighs aren't helping much to restrain your growing want for him either and for one moment, you simply want to make love to him then and there, to hell with the consequences.

But that thought alone is also enough to send you crashing back to earth. The irony doesn't escape you. Nor does the fact that two weeks earlier, you at least had the excuse of three quarters of a bottle of bubbles before you were ready to jump the blond consultant's bones.

You break contact between the two of you and lie back down, again turning your face away from him. As always, he seems to understand it's better to leave you to your own thoughts for a while.

Those own thoughts run a hundred miles a second, all coming to a screeching halt at the realization that you can't have what you want.

Not yet.

He's trying. You believe he is. He's doing his best, even on the job. Sure, he's still annoying, but he does manage not to upset as many people as usual and the amount of complaints you have to solve and reports you have to write because of him have decreased to an acceptable level. As a result, Hightower's breath is no longer always in your neck and you can relax a little better.

"I'm sorry, Teresa."

Wait…where does this come from? What is he apologizing for? You turn your head toward him, to see him looking at you intently.

"I'm sorry for the mixed feeling I must provoke inside of you. We both know there's sexual attraction between us, but it was never my intention to somehow seduce you. What I want, when the time is there for us, is more than just lust. And since I don't know how hard the future will be…I should tone things down, before we make a move that will only separate us in the end."

There are a lot of things he isn't mentioning, but you get the meaning loud and clear. With him practically living with you and with all the very close calls you've already had, he's probably right about playing it safe and you're glad he's noticed it too.

"I guess you're right, but it's not your fault alone. I was there too you know."

"So…friends?"

"For now."

You formally shake hands and turn away to soak in some sun.

After only half an hour, Patrick gets bored and challenges you into building sandcastles. Despite of your agreement, you're soon dancing as king and queen to officially open your new dominion.

Life goes back to its normal routine for a couple of weeks.

Now that you've managed to bottle up the sexual frustration for the time being, you notice it has one advantage. There's more time again for real conversation and when you take your time to listen, he's also more open. You've learnt the names of his beloved family (his wife Kelly and his daughter Sam), where he and Kelly met (he got hired for entertainment at her sorority house graduation party) and that, much to your surprise; they were married in a Roman Catholic Church (he didn't want to offend his wife in front of her beloved and devout Catholic grandmother by refusing), which also explains why he wore his ring on his left hand. It shows you that he can make a sacrifice like that when he loves someone enough.

Will he ever make one for you?

That evening, after scolding him for again letting you do all the laundry by yourself, and after letting him make the coffee and do all the dishes as payback, you wonder out loud whether or not you would have been friends with her and his answer surprises you.

"I'm not sure. You're nothing like her. She was more carefree, at first at least."

You look up, hurt evident in your eyes.

"It wasn't a negative jab at you, Teresa. It's not like you had such a carefree life. But it does mean you are, in a way, better for me now. Kelly always gave me too much leeway, maybe because her life had always been so easy. You're stronger of will, of character. You never make it easy for me to follow my own directions."

"Yet, you always do."

He's silent for a while after that, contemplating his answer.

"I'm sorry for every time my rash handling gets you in trouble, truly I am. It's why I don't even tell you most of the times. But like I said, I'm trying. So please, bear with me. Can you do that?"

How can you not when he's looking at you that way?

Still, when you're in bed that night, sleep eludes you and you keep wondering about that one little thing bugging you.

Will he make that one sacrifice for you?

Because if, in the end, he doesn't, then where does all this trying of his lead to? And if the answer is nowhere, will you have enough strength left to pick yourself up and move on?

How does one get over Patrick Jane?


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 **

**AN: **Many times I get the comment through my reviews that my endings seem rushed. I know that putting a story to a satisfactory end is not my strongest point, so in order not to try and make this mistake again, I created this extra chapter to fit in between the previous one and the end. Hope I did my story justice.

**Disclaimer**: So many birthday presents...so little Simon Baker :-(. Oh well...there's still Christmas, right?

_On with it..._

In the weeks that follow that...eh...memorable beach trip, the both of you allow the other one some leeway. Patrick rents a cheap apartment somewhere near CBI headquarters, just to give you some breathing space. The first few days on your own, you're glad to be able to just walk around in your underwear without a warning first or just to have your second bedroom back as utility room, workout room or whatever you need it to be room.

Still, that lasts for only a few days. Then you have to admit to yourself that it's already been Patrick's room for too long and that no matter how much needless stuff you put in there, it'll always be his room to you.

At work, he's pleasant enough, teasing with a hint of flirting, but never coming as close to crossing that line as you were at the beach.

You feel so schizophrenic lately, part of you still constantly wishing he would come to you like the knight in shining armor while the other part knows that both of you need the distance and that the worst is yet to come.

How bad that worse is, you don't want to know. The ostrich seems a very sympathetic animal to you these days.

Yet, the combination of the feeling of missing him while he tries to keep some semblance of professionalism for your sake, triggers your irritation. You just can't help it.

The biggest of all clashes appears with one of many Red John copycat killings. It's not like you can accuse him of not helping, of not doing his bit for the team, but his lack of personal interest in the barely alive and very shocked seventeen year old victim, stings you. Just because her assailant is not Red John, as quickly deducted by Patrick himself, should not ever mean that the victim is any less traumatized or that catching the real pervert is any less important.

Teresa Lisbon, good friend and wannabe mistress, understands his disappointment. After all, it is again another lead gone cold before he even had a chance to look into it. But at the job, you're Special Agent Lisbon and as such, you don't have much time to worry about his personal grievances, not when the parents of this girl are holding on by a thread while their only daughter is still fighting for her life at the local hospital's ICU, barely able to talk, let alone give you any helpful information.

All the time during the investigation, he's again walking the very narrow tightrope in between being the helpful consultant he's getting paid to be and being the sulky, petulant and obnoxious childlike man you had seriously hoped you had gotten rid of by now.

Eventually, your team does find the man who almost killed young Colleen Briars, but not thanks to Patrick Jane, whose only contribution was recognizing the crime scene as a copycat of Red John's and not getting punched during investigations. Even that was a close call, come to think of it.

Other than that, it was mostly Van Pelt's skills on the Internet, where she found out that the perpetrator was the older brother of one of her school friends. A few strands of fabric from his work uniform were left behind at the crime scene and through the victim's Facebook page, she found a picture of a girl, posing with her brother. The brother was wearing a uniform with the exact same color shirt as the ones that were collected in Colleen's bedroom.

You got a warrant for a search of his dorm room and found the shirt. After forensics confirmed the match between the strands found at the crime scene and the shirt, your team arrested him. Cho got a confession out of him in less than fifteen minutes. It's the classical story of a boy turned down by a girl. The information to copy Red John's MO came as a spur of the moment solution to try and cover up his crime of passion.

Still frustrated about Patrick's conduct during this investigation, you decline the usual post-case pizza and head home, looking forward to being alone there so you can take a long, luxurious bubble bath and put on a sappy movie while eating your way through a whole carton of chocolate chip ice cream.

It is not meant to be. A very familiar figure shows up about ten minutes after you get home. Reluctantly, you turn off the hot water tap and drain the remaining water from the tub. With any other guy, you would just let them knock until they get the message.

But this is Patrick. There's not much imagination needed to figure out he'll come in anyway. The front door wouldn't stop him and neither would the bathroom door. And if you want to get into an argument with anyone, you prefer to do so fully clothed.

Silently, you let him in, but that's all. You don't offer him a seat, or a drink and you refuse to be the first to start the conversation. You can be very stubborn if you want to be and this time, you're not about to cut him any slack. He has some very serious explaining as well as apologizing to do.

His start is hesitant. He knows you're upset with him. Well, how can he not?

"Look, Teresa, I know I haven't been at my very best on this case, but…"

He abruptly stops at that, his eyes blazing, as if he's hoping you will, again, be content with a half-sentence and a slight pout. But how can he think that this is good enough, no matter how cute he looks? As usual when you're annoyed with him, you revert back to using his last name, knowing that he hates the emotional distance it puts between the two of you.

"But what, Jane? I can't expect you to pay attention when the bad guy is not Red John? The victim has no right to your sympathy because her attacker happens to be someone you don't want to kill? We, your coworkers do not need you to do your job if you don't benefit from this man's apprehension?"

He tries to get in a word, but now that you're talking, all the frustration, all of your dormant fears, come out like a waterfall. At least he already knows you're in love with him, so this time you shouldn't have to be afraid of revealing something he's not supposed to know.

"I worry about you, Jane. And I'm afraid. We've gotten so close these last few weeks, I thought you were sincere when you said you were trying, but now I'm not sure what to believe anymore."

"I am trying, Teresa. You know I am. But every time I think that this time, I might actually get to him, nothing happens and yes, I get frustrated. I wish…I wish I could make you understand."

Despite of yourself, your anger evaporates. But your anxiety does not. Slumping down on the first seat you can find, you allow the mixture of angry and hurtful tears to come out.

"And I wish I could make you understand how my heart stops every time I see you retreat within yourself. I don't expect you to share everything with me, I don't need you to open Pandora's box, but Patrick…I still fret about you. And I shouldn't. At least not at the office. I have to be able to be Agent Lisbon there first. I can't spare any more time wondering where you are, what you are thinking and if, by the end of the day, there's still even a friendship left."

Obviously startled by your last statement, he pulls you up from the seat you have taken and encloses you in an almost desperate embrace.

"Please, sweet Teresa, don't say that. There's nothing more important to me than our friendship…and whatever evolves from that."

"Nothing except for Red John."

There's no way he can answer that, so you're not surprised when he doesn't answer at all. He only tightens his grip around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, holding on for dear life.

As good as it feels, you know it's an end rather than a beginning. Patrick Jane can no longer lie to himself or you. He's tried…but failed and perhaps it's better to come to that conclusion now rather than in a few months, when you would have invested even more of your heart and soul into this man.

Reluctantly, you let go of him and while the tears are blocking your vision, you stand on the tips of your toes to kiss him ever so softly on his pouty mouth. If this is the only kiss you'll ever share, you grant yourself that much.

His hand comes up to find your cheek and gently wipe the tear streaks away. His breathing is heavy and even though your vision is blurred, you realize he's on the verge of tears himself.

"I think I'd better go now."

You nod. It's no use prolonging the inevitable. With a gigantic force of will, you let go of his embrace and take a step back. Immediately, the cold of his loss enshrines you and you gasp for breath. The pain is so much worse than you'd anticipated.

Patrick stands there, forlornly, for just a few more seconds, before he turns on his heel and flees the crime scene of the broken hearted.

The door clicks shut with deafening finality and for just a few minutes, you sink to the floor, paralyzed by the shock. Only when you cool off too quickly, you force yourself to get up and move to the bedroom. The bath doesn't appeal to you at that time, it's way too much trouble to even turn the taps back on. Plus, you're afraid you'll just drown yourself.

Your good friends Ben and Jerry help you get over the initial shock while you live through your own personal Bridget Jones moment.

In the morning, you contemplate the possibility of calling in sick, but you know you won't. Your job is your life and no shredded heart can prevent you from doing what you were trained to do.

At the office, communication between you and your consultant is reduced to the very minimum. It's hard on both of you, seeing the other one in pain, but nothing seems to get you out of this stalemate you're in.

After four days, you're at the end of your tether. You no longer care that he's after Red John like a bull spotting a red flag. At this point, you're willing to take him anyway, flaws and all. Even having him temporarily seems better than not having him at all.

He must be thinking along the same lines, because in the evening, when you've sent your team home for the weekend, he shuffles into your office, standing at the threshold, leaning against the doorpost.

Childishly, you refuse to acknowledge his presence, until he coughs to get your attention. Reluctantly, you look up from your computer screen.

"What do you want, Jane?"

"You."

"What was that?"

"You heard me. I miss you, Teresa."

That statement, so simple, so accurate, makes you drop the act immediately.

"I know. I miss you too. But we can't just ignore what's standing in between us. If we do, then how much more will it hurt the next time?"

"I never meant to hurt you in the first place. I guess I still have to get used to the idea of having someone to think about again. I've been flying solo for such a long time. Nobody cared about my thirst for revenge before. I would leave no loved one behind, no matter what I did."

"That's different now."

"Yeah, I know. But my subconscious hasn't caught up with that yet. Every time Red John shows up, my blood still starts to boil and all I can think of is getting rid of him."

"Even when it makes you a murderer? Even when you know it won't break some kind of spell and get your family back?"

"It's no fairy tale. I'm aware of that. Though I still believe it's some kind of magic that brought you in my life. And I guess that's the heart of the matter."

"What is?"

"The feeling that, if I lost them, I could also lose you. If I never did right by them, how can I do right by you? Maybe I sabotage what I have because I anticipate it going wrong anyway."

"You're forgetting something. There's two of us in this relationship, Patrick. And I have a say in this too. And you know what? I won't let you fall. I'll undermine all your attempts at sabotage, for as long as it takes you to see the truth."

"And what's that?"

"That we'll still be standing long after Red John's being taken care of."

He nods and takes your hand in his own. It's the first physical contact between the two of you and as small as it is, it makes you shiver.

"He still has to be taken care off. And I can't promise you I'll play it by the books."

"I know you can't. Just…be careful, Patrick. No matter how this pans out."

"That I can promise. For the rest, we'll just have to wait and see."

"Patrick?"

"Yes, my darling Teresa?

"Let's go home."

_TBC...Reviews appreciated as always!_


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: **Sorry, sorry, sorry, etc, etc, etc for not updating this story in over a month. I am appalled at myself. Hope my "fans" are still out there and I hope all of you enjoy the last part of this story. I know I enjoyed writing it!

**Disclaimer**: I'm running out of funny disclaimers. They're just not mine, that's all there is to it. Sigh...oh well...

**Chapter 7**

He's home again with you. His stuff has taken over the small room, he leaves his dirty socks for you to pick up, but he does make you fresh coffee every morning and he lets you choose the movies most of the time.

It's scary how little time it takes for the both of you to settle back in your little routine of…whatever it is you are to each other.

Some days, you wish you knew. Knew where this very uncertain…thing you're doing is leading you to. But usually, whenever this feeling plagues you, you force yourself to push it out of your mind and just enjoy the moment.

Whenever the time comes, you'll just deal with it accordingly. Perhaps that might not be the wisest way to approach the subject, but neither Patrick, nor your own judgment can seem to tell you what that wise way should be.

And perhaps, Red John will just disappear and you'll never have to find out.

It's not meant to be though…

Sooner than you had ever anticipated, you're about to find out how it all pans out.

It's Red John who first drops the ball at his typical crime scene a week later, leaving his fingerprint within the smiley face, painted on the wall of a beach cottage, rented by three young women on spring break from college. One of the girls is dead, one is being taken to the hospital in critical condition and the other one was lucky enough not to be in the building when it happened. She's too much in shock to be of any help, though.

But Red John himself proves to help you out this time. Apparently, his glove was torn without him noticing it. Finally, the breakthrough you've been looking for.

The next mistake comes from the CBI mail boy, who carelessly dumps a report which is clearly marked 'confidential' on your desk while you're in a mandatory budget meeting.

The report shows a match between the fingerprint and a set of prints taken from a guy who was booked for DUI a few months earlier.

Confidential never meant anything to Patrick Jane, so he's the first one to slip into your office and read the contents of the report. With quiet determination and without telling anyone where he's going, he leaves the office. His enemy has a name. And an address. The day of reckoning has finally arrived.

By the time your meeting is over and you yourself get to read it, Patrick already has half an hour's head start.

It takes another half hour for you to get an arrest team ready, complete with snipers and a helicopter. Overkill? Perhaps, but this is Patrick and even though he might not want to protect himself, you're hell bent on doing it for him.

The entire entourage follows your SUV to the address which might hold Jonathan Creed, a.k.a. Red John and Patrick.

Your heart rate accelerates when you spot his car parked just outside a one-story bungalow at the end of a narrow one-way street. It's just a small building, which is good. The more space, the more options to run, hide or obscure. But then again, the smaller the building, the easier it is to back someone against the wall.

Normally, the combination of your job training and the adrenaline rush keeps you focused, but you can feel your hands shaking when they grip your gun. Your mind goes blank accept for the constant prayers running through it. Luckily, Cho seems to understand your inner turmoil as he takes over the direction of the assault team.

His silent nod indicates everyone is in place and after one huge sigh, you open the door of the bungalow, trying as best as you can to prepare yourself for any likely scenario.

Still, what you find is not something you're ready to deal with.

A short, stocky man in his late forties is huddled in a corner of the totally empty living room, bleeding from the side of his mouth, looking cocky and defiant at the man pointing his gun (well, technically, the gun is yours) at him. Red John's own gun is kicked out of his reach.

Patrick is trembling slightly and for the first time since you know him, he's perspiring heavily. His face is ashen and his focus slightly off. It doesn't seem like he's aware there's anyone in the room with him other than his primary target. You take one step closer to him and stifle a gasp. His suit jacket is drenched in dark red liquid, slowly seeping from what appears to be a bullet hole in his clavicle. No wonder he's sweating. He's in shock.

Yet, he stands there, gun locked at the crouching man. You increase the speed of your prayers.

Your ear piece informs you that one of the snipers can make a clear shot if you could manage to get Patrick out of the way, but you answer with a whispered 'negative', since you know that short from pushing him down, nothing will deter Patrick from his goal.

In the meantime, an odd conversation, almost a battle of wills is going back and forth between the two men, neither of which has so much as acknowledged your presence.

"Just shoot me already. You know you want to."

"Don't pretend to know what I want."

"But I do know what you want. You want to be a happy family man as well as feel superior to other people. Good thing I taught you nobody can have it both ways."

"But what if you're wrong my friend?"

"I am not. Happiness is not for you. Or have you forgotten what they looked like? Your little girl, your gorgeous wife. You were not entitled to have them, so I rectified that. And you can't get them back, not even in your fake psychic dreams."

"True. But you're still wrong."

Another request for permission to shoot the man reaches you and for the second time you reply they should wait. There might not be any need for you to whisper, but for some strange reason, you feel like you should.

Your answer, echoing louder than you had anticipated in the emptiness, must have woken Patrick up from the scary trance he appears to be under. He turns to you and, very unexpectedly, gives you a radiant smile, sucking in his breath as the movement causes the pain in his shoulder to flare up.

His question to you completely throws you off guard. Of all scenarios you've come up with over the years, this was definitely not one of them.

"Teresa…do you love me?"

Even though you wonder if right now is the perfect time for you to declare your undying devotion to him (come on, you had something with a sunset and palm trees in mind), this is also not the time to argue. Besides, when it comes down to the matter at hand, there's really nothing to argue about.

"You know I do."

He's panting and you wonder how much longer he can hold on before he faints.

"Say it. Please, say it."

"I love you, Patrick Jane. With all my heart."

"Marry me."

Again, this is not exactly how you imagined being proposed to (Patrick kneeling down in the sand while holding a gazillion carat diamond ring up to you is more like it), but still…

"Yes. Yes, I'll marry you."

Right after hearing your consent, he lowers his gun and without as much as another glance at the man who has once ruined his life, turns away from Red John, allowing Cho and Rigsby to come closer and apprehend the man in a legal way.

He walks over to you, wobbling a little, but he still has enough strength to pull you in his arms and kiss you full on the lips. Neither one of you cares to notice you're not exactly alone.

"I love you, Teresa. You make me so happy. I'm sorry for putting you on the spot like this, but…"

"I understand. And I'm proud of you. And just so you know…you make me very happy too."

You are happy. The nightmare is as good as over. You don't have to arrest the man you love. He's free to love you properly now and you know he will be an even more remarkable man without the mask of defiance to hide his grief.

He's learned that the biggest pain and humiliation he can inflict on Red John is showcasing his new found happiness right in front of him and even if he kind of used it as a tool, it's still a better tool than the gun he was holding and therefore, you can get over the least romantic proposal of the century.

Apparently, the humiliation works. When you hear a sound like a strangled cry, you both look around to see that Jonathan Creed has managed to struggle free from the grip Rigsby had on him and is making a mad dash for his discarded gun. A series of shots coming from Cho stops him in his effort and he sags down with a muffled thud. Pain and rage flash through his eyes for a moment as they settle upon Patrick and yourself, still embracing each other, before he starts coughing up blood and dies.

Silently, Patrick leans on your shoulder as you support him to the waiting ambulance, where you don't wait for anyone's consent before getting in the vehicle with him. You hold his hand and wipe his brow all the way to the hospital, where they take him to the ER immediately to get the bullet out.

Cho and Rigsby volunteer to do all the paperwork on this case and they join you in the hospital about an hour later. Van Pelt has already arrived and even Hightower comes walking in behind the two men.

You're all waiting by his bedside when he wakes up, but his eyes only search yours. You take his hand and lean in for a quick kiss, for once not particularly caring who sees it. He croaks out for some ice chips and gently you push a few to his chapped lips. His voice gets a little steadier when he asks for you to hand him his suit jacket.

"It's taken to CBI headquarters for evidence."

"The contents?"

"Patrick, it's okay. Don't worry. They're safe."

"I need them." He insists.

With a nod of consent from Hightower, Van Pelt volunteers to go get them and she returns an hour later with a transparent, zipped up evidence bag and a bunch of documents.

"You need to sign these, boss."

You quickly scribble your signature on the dotted line which legally gives Patrick the possession of his stuff back. Van Pelt hands him the bag and rips it open for him, since his shoulder prevents him from doing so himself.

However, he does have enough strength to pull out the one thing he was obviously looking for. It's a small, velvet box.

He calmly asks you to join him on the bed and, careful not to hurt him, you do as you are asked.

"Teresa, again, I'm so sorry for the way I proposed to you this afternoon. And I'm also sorry I can't get on one knee as it should, but I did and do mean what I said. My darling, sweet Teresa. You've been more patient, more lenient with me than I deserve and I'll never be able to repay you for that. All these years, you were my rock, my one link to sanity and it'll take a life time of gratitude to express that. We both know we don't have a lifetime, but I will try, every single day we do have to make you as happy as you make me. Will you marry me?"

His monologue exhausted him and made you cry. Through your blurred vision, your lips still find his and your answer comes out raspy, yet confidently.

"My answer is still the same. Yes, my love. I'll marry you."

The ring inside the box is beautiful, certainly a few fine carats and certainly worth a few bucks, but it's not tacky or over the top. He knows you too well.

And well, it's all still a few palm trees short of a fairy tale, but you're surrounded by people you love and you're wearing the ring of a man you adore. A man who has just stopped trying in order to start really living with you.

In short, it's all you need.

It started in a locked up shipping container. It came to a conclusion in a hospital room.

You figure you can always fill in the palm trees when you retell the story of your proposal to your great-grandchildren.

THE END

_That's all folks! Hope you enojoyed. Reviews much appreciated as always!_


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